


Puzzles of the Heart

by terminaltongues



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Although pretty canon, Angst, Backstory, Childhood, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Falling In Love, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, Ice Skating, M/M, Victor is just trying to figure things out, lovers to lovers haha
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2017-07-04
Packaged: 2018-09-20 14:38:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9496064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terminaltongues/pseuds/terminaltongues
Summary: There are the people that love Victor like his mother and care about him like Yakov. They see Victor when they look at him, not some glittering puppet to be strung up like an ornament.Then there are the people that love Victor for what he can give them. They love his image, the Young Ice Prince that dazzles the crowd with his swan-like grace and charming looks. They love the shiny medals he collects like bottle caps and the flirtatious winks he throws at the audience after a performance. They buy magazines with his face in them and plaster them on their walls. They watch his videos and form fan groups so they can commiserate over how wonderful his hair looks twisted back into a braid.Victor has a glass heart and he's trying hard to find someone that won't shatter it





	1. Before

**Author's Note:**

> This work is unbetaed and may contain inaccuracies. If any stand out to you, feel free to note them in the comments. That being said, please enjoy this work for all that it is.
> 
> edit: I'm working on the second part as we speak! I just wanted to fix some minor errors with part one beforehand.

 

_"I exist as I am, that is enough"_

 

_\- Walt Whitman_

 

* * *

When Victor’s mother is scared, her hands tremble like  leaves. It’s happened enough times in Victor’s life for him to notice the pattern. At first he thought it was from excitement or the weather, but after seeing her roll and form a perfect snowball with bare, steady hands he dismissed the thought. It couldn’t be excitement either, because on Victor’s fourth birthday she carried his birthday cake in from the kitchen and her fingers didn’t even quiver even though all four candles were light and sparking like small fireworks; It had taken him five minutes to realize why they wouldn’t blow out.

An incident not even three months ago confirmed Victor’s theory. Victor likes to blame it on all the cartoons he’d been watching. They had sparked his spirit for adventure and made him wonder if he moved his legs fast enough if they would blur together like the characters on the screen. His curiosity led him to decide to explore all the levels in their apartment complex, only to be disappointed to realize that all were the same. In fact, they were so similar that after a while he could no longer tell what floor he was on at all and the thrill of his adventure began to fade into confusion and fear.

It wasn’t long before Victor was wailing and banging on the nearest door in hopes that his mother would open it. Eventually a nosy neighbor a few doors down came out to see what all the commotion was about. Together, they managed to track down Victor’s mother and the older woman, Mrs. Petrov, led a teary-eyed Victor back up to flights of stairs to his apartment. His mother met him with shaking hands and a pale, panic-stricken expression on her face. She pulled him into her arms simultaneously scolding him and soothing his distressed hiccups.

There had been other times too, but that was the only one that had such dramatic repercussions such as placing a child lock on more drawers and door knobs. Victor humored his mother and pretended he didn’t know how to undo the latches. That brought him to today, Victor at six years old.  

He had been in the middle of placing a key lego piece on what he deemed ‘the tower of doom’ when his mother burst into his room. The new building was going to be the largest and most intimidating addition to his growing lego city. Victor took pride in his creation. Each building was unique in its structure and personality, and while each building had its official title, he also liked to give them nicknames such as ‘John’ or ‘Alexander’. While he built, he dutifully ignored the indistinct shouts echoing from the other side of the apartment.

His mother’s unannounced arrival paired with the sudden slamming of the front door to the apartment caused Victor to jerk and accidentally send ‘the tower of doom’ or ‘Anastasia’ crashing to the ground. He had less than a moment to mourn before his mother was demanding his attention.

“C’mon Vitya, we’re going ice skating,” she said.

Victor opened his mouth to complain that he didn’t want to go skating and in fact, she had just sent construction back at least two weeks, but he closed it when he took in her appearance. Her icy blue eyes, although rimmed red, were calm and cool. It was her hands that betrayed her, small tremors signaling her distress. He didn’t even spare his fallen masterpiece another glance before he got up to slide his hand into his mother’s.

“Okay,” he relented.

 

Now, Victor sat in his carseat alternating between tracing lazy squiggles across the surface of the foggy car window and looking back to see if his mother’s grip on the steering wheel is still shaking. They’re both silent on the way there and Victor pretends that he doesn’t hear the occasional sniffle sound from his mother.

When they get to the ice rink Victor tries to break the silence by explaining the metropolis he’s building in his room.

“I was thinking of building a big palace,” he divulges. His mother raises an eyebrow and offers him a small amused smile. “It’ll be so tall we’ll have to get a new ceiling. I’m going to call it ‘Mama’s Palace’.” It will be easier, too, now that he has all the extra pieces from the former Anastasia. 

Victor continues to describe the enormity of Mama’s Palace as his mother helps get his skates laced up. Victor imagines he could do it himself since he can finally tie his regular shoes after only two tries. He doesn’t mention this as his mother gently places his skate-clad foot in her lap; it seems like a good idea to give her hands something to do.

 His mother smiles delicately and nods at all the right times. Victor returns his enthusiasm tenfold.

 “And where will your papa stay?” she asks quietly when Victor has to break to try and think of other adjectives to describe just how awesome the tower is going to be.

 The question stumps him, and his smiles falls. Victor’s father was less human and more ghost. Even when he was home, it seemed as though his body was transported somewhere else. Sometimes, he didn’t stay at home. Sometimes he came back late in the night and he would bang on the door, but his mother wouldn’t let him in. Sometimes he would say Victor’s name and it sounded foreign to both of their ears and they would blink at each other in mutual confusion.

 “Oh. I hadn’t thought of that,” he mumbles. “I guess he could stay in your palace,” Victor offers weakly, unsure.

His mother fixes him with a heavy look and places an only slightly trembling hand on his shin.

 “Is that what you would like?” she asks softly.

 Victor feels a fuzzy sort of panic spread through his limbs, taking root in the pit of his stomach. His small brain scrambles to try and comprehend the implications of his mother’s words. Why does her question feel like a puzzle? Victor is six. He doesn’t know the answer. He just wants his mother’s hands to stop shaking and for her to smile like the wrong reply won’t shatter her.

 Slowly, Victor places his small hand over her own and gives his mother what he hopes is his best smile.

 “I want whatever you want, Mamochka. It’s your palace.”

She offers him a watery smile in return and squeezes his hand before letting it go.

 “I guess it is,” she agrees. “Let’s go skate, Rybka.”

 Victor feels the finality in her response, but doesn’t know what it means. The panic in his stomach swells for an unbearable moment, but then he shakes it off and jumps of the bench to waddle after his mother to the ice rink.

At first, Victor is useless. His legs wobble like a newborn deer and his movements are choppy and unsure, fingers laced in his mother’s in a vice grip. His mother tries to coax him into a more relaxed posture, but he remains stiff and stubborn, adamantly avoiding the harsh glare of the icy ground. The thought of falling sends shivers down his spine and causes his legs to lock up further.

 Eventually, his mother seems to note the root of his fear.

 “It’s okay to fall,” she encourages gently. Ninety minutes have passed and they’ve only skated five laps. Victor nods in response, but his gut twists uneasily at the thought. “I’ll show you,” she furthers, promptly releasing her grip on Victor’s hand and purposely tumbling to the ground. 

Victor immediately panics, crying out as he too tumbles forward, smacking his hands hard against the ice. The sting of the contact brings instant tears to his eyes, but when he looks up, his mother his smiling at him like he’s just won an award.

 “Not so bad is it, Vitya?” Her cheeks are flushed and her eyes are bright.

 Victor wipes the wetness from his eyes with the back of his hand. The coolness actually feels kind of nice pressed against his hot cheeks.

 “No,” he relents, bashful.

After that, it’s easy. Like everything else, Victor takes to the ice like a fish to water. He attacks the rink with vigor and determination, anything to keep the smile on his mother’s face. The sound of her cheers when he completes his first lap by himself is like music to his ears and pushes him to skate faster and faster. He continues to fall too, but his tumbles only seem to make her cheer louder and so Victor begins to welcome the cool embrace of the hard ice on his skin and pays no mind to his mistakes. The weight in his stomach lessens until it is nothing, and Vitor feels like he’s floating. He spends the rest of the afternoon bathing in the sound of his mother’s laughter.

 They skate until closing, only breaking once to buy food from the snack shop. While they wait for their stomachs to settle from the greasy food, his mother pulls him into her lap and threads her fingers through Victor’s long silver hair now damp from sweat.

 Victor relishes in the soft stroke of his mother’s fingers as they braid his hair content to sit and watch as the more experienced skaters glide across the ice. They skate in looping circles, some wide, others tight and fast, their arms flicked out and over their heads as they land spinning jumps. Victor watches, almost in a dazed stupor as he watches their bodies dance across the ice.

 He imagines what his mother might say if she saw him perform a jump like that. What would she tell him? How big would her smile be? He’s so entranced by their movements, he doesn’t even take notice to the fact that his mother’s hands have stopped trembling.

 

* * *

 

 

Things between his mother and father begin to officially disintegrate. Before, the crumbling felt gradual, but now it seems everything is happening at once. They get a divorce and Victor sits on the couch in the living room listening to the sound of his father pack his suitcase. On his way out he stops, turning back to look at Victor. Victor thinks he should be sad that his father his leaving. He knows his mother is. As soon as his father brought out his suitcase and started pulling clothes from the drawers, she had dismissed herself to the bathroom. Her sobs, though muffled, were clearly audible. For a moment, the two share a look. 

I don’t love you, Victor thinks.

I know. It’s better this way, his father’s look seems to say.

 His father opens his mouth as if to say something more before letting it fall closed. He offers Victor a curt nod before he turns and leaves the apartment. The same time the door shuts, his mother’s sniffles burst into sobbing wails.

I don’t love you, Victor thinks. I don’t love you. I don’t love you.

It doesn’t stop his heart from tearing.

 

* * *

 

The ice rink becomes a haven for them. They go every weekend and after some coaxing from Victor, twice during the workweek. It’s the only place he can get his mother to smile without it turning into a grimace. But as time passes, it becomes harder to elicit even the smallest upturn of lip from the drooping lines of his mother’s face.

Victor loves his mother. He loves her so much, but Victor doesn’t think he ever wants to fall in love. His mother wasn’t happy with his father, but she seems even worse off without him. Even when they fought it was with passion and intent. Now, a visible dull ache has set up camp in her eyes and refuses to leave. It’s not worth it, he decides.

All Victor can do is try to skate faster, better, harder. When he falls it no longer draws encouragements from his mother. Instead she lets out worried sighs and cautions him to watch his head. It’s not quite the same, but it still pushes him to work harder and try and attempt to go airborne.

Eventually he manages a short little jump. It’s hardly a jump, even, more of a short spastic movement in which both skates leave the ground and for a brilliant second Victor is floating before he lands again on skates. He’s unsteady for a moment before he regains his composure and turns with a megawatt smile to see his mother’s reaction. 

Only, she doesn’t seem to have noticed. She sitting on one of the benches outside the rink. Earlier she had said that she wasn’t feeling up to skating today. She wouldn’t even bring her skates to the rink. Her gaze is turned in the opposite direction facing the large clock that hangs high on the far wall. Victor nearly falls from the weight of the disappointment that crashes down on him.

Victor debates leaving the ice completely, but a voice snaps him out of his reverie.

The call came from one of the older skaters, a tall man with spiky blond hair and emerald green eyes. He skates up to Victor, matching his pace.

“You’re quite something, aren’t you kid,” the man says.

Victor startles and nearly falls, but manages to keep his balance. A month ago the break in his focus would have sent Victor sprawling across the ice. Now, he merely deigns a short sideways glance at the newcomer before speeding up. It’s as if a dark cloud has descended over him. He wonders if the man saw his jump. He wonder if he can even call it that much. 

The man doesn’t seem to notice Victor’s darkening mood.

“I saw what you were trying to do back there,” the man intones lightly. 

Victor unwillingly feels his cheeks flush in embarrassment. So he had seen him.

“Are you taking classes with the rink?” the man asks.

Victor slows, turning slightly to face the man. Victor didn’t realize they offered classes at the rink. He had always assumed that the older, more talented skaters had learned the same way he was attempting to. The idea of having a teacher seemed so obvious now. In a class, he would be able to properly learn to do the jumps, real jumps. The thought sends a spark of excitement rushing through his blood and the dark cloud above his head evaporates.

“No,” he responds. “Can you teach me how to do jumps?” Victor asks, nearly stumbling because of his giddiness, only briefly embarrassed when the man reaches out a hand to steady him. His mother is going to be so impressed with him. The plans are already beginning to weave themselves into something tangible. Victor can practically see the smile he’ll give her when he shows her whatever cool skills he’ll learn in class.

The man chuckles at Victor’s obvious enthusiasm.

“I can teach you much more than that, kid.”

Victor beams.

 

* * *

 

The man’s name is Maxim. To Victor’s delight, it takes little to no convincing to get his mother agree to sign him up for lessons, _private lessons._ Maxim agrees to teach Victor one on one for a discount price, claiming his natural talent covered the rest of the cost. Although his mother seemed unmoved by the rest of his charms, this caused her to quirk a small smile.

The only downside is that his mother no longer joins him on the ice. She drops him off an hour before the public skate starts for his lessons. The lessons are only an hour, but afterwards Victor continues to skate until his mother picks him up. She doesn’t even bring her skates. 

Victor asks her why she doesn’t skate with him anymore, and she just gives him a tired smile. She’s always tired now. 

“Don’t worry, Rybka. We’ll skate again soon.”

They don’t skate again, but Victor doesn’t let her absence discourage him. Now that his goal is so clearly set, it’s easier for him to classify his mother’s sadness as a temporary thing that will be over soon. He’ll train hard and master his jumps and she won’t be able to do anything but smile, amazed by his new talent.

It’s not difficult to stay motivated, not with a coach like Maxim. Maxim is everything Victor wants to be. He’s sharp and clean and seems to land all of his jumps. The first time he showed Victor an axel, he’d begged him to teach him at that day’s lesson. Maxim had only chuckled and conciliated him by telling him that they’d get there one day. One day soon, he corrected after a day of Victor’s pestering.

Not only is Maxim a wonderful coach, he is also a great friend. He asks Victor about his day as they laced their skates on together and listens when Victor describes the colossal and completely stupendous new addition to his lego city. When Victor does something particularly well or lands a new jump, he cheers, “ _Maladets_ , _Victor!”_ and Victor preens. 

It’s the perfect escape from his quiet apartment where silence seems to gather like dust on the furniture. It’s everything Victor has ever wanted.

It’s too good to be true.

It’s Maxim’s first time coaching. Somewhere around the four month mark, the novelty of his six year old protogé begins to fade. He begins to grow disinterested, impatient. Now when Victor fails to land a jump, his encouragements sound hollow and sharp. The jokes they used to share begin to bleed into something new entirely. 

Maxim’s met someone and things were going great, until they weren’t. 

“She’s such a _suka_ , you can’t imagine,” Maxim gripes at one session. Victor blinks, surprised. He doesn’t know what the word means, only that he heard his father yell it as his mother during one of their fights. “Kicking me out of my own apartment!” 

Victor doesn’t respond, but Maxim hardly seemed to notice. 

Everything is about his girlfriend, Vera. She won’t let him choose what to watch on television. She looks over his shoulder when he’s trying to text one of his friends. She refuses to let him drink beer in the house because it makes his breath smell like skunk.

It gets worse. Maxim begins to show up late to their lessons or skip them altogether. The first time he skips, Victor spends the sessions skating slow circles around the ice, too anxious to practice anything else on his own. He was so worried that instead of staying through the public skating hours, Victor unlaced his skates and sat on one of the benches outside the rink until his mother came to pick him up. He doesn’t tell her that Maxim didn’t show up. 

When Victor brings it up during their next lesson, Maxim dismisses his question with a wave of the hand mentioning something about a lunch date he couldn’t miss. I really think we’ll work this out, he says. Victor accepts his excuse and tries to feel happy for his coach, but has trouble ignoring the knot that is beginning to twist the insides of his stomach together.

Still, he doesn’t tell his mother. Not even when he hears her muttering under her breath about bills or when he sees her aggressively rubbing anti-aging cream into her face as if it could make the dark smudges beneath her eyes disappear and the hardening lines of her face soften. 

Maxim continues to miss lessons. One week he doesn’t show up at all, but the bill still shows up in the mail. Victor blinks when he sees the amount charged next to the days Maxim was absent. He was still charging his mother. He should tell her, he thinks. He really should, but he can’t, not yet. 

Victor tries to bring it up again during a lesson. The discomfort of knowing his mother is paying for something she shouldn’t be is too much. He can’t continue like this. He likes Maxim, but he loves his mother. 

“Max,” Victor starts, voice unusually quiet. Victor can’t help the nervous twinge that he feels. The pair are skating cool down laps between the time after their lesson and before public skaters start filtering in. Victor thought it would be better to bring it up after he’d worked off some of his nervous energy. He doesn’t think it worked.

“Hmm?” Maxim hardly spares a glance in Victor’s direction. 

Victor takes a deep breath. 

“I was just wondering if…” he trails off, unsure of how to continue. 

Maxim turns his head and quirks an amused eyebrow. Victor is not generally shy when it comes to asking for what he wants, especially in regards to skating.

“Yes, Victor?”

Victor tries again. 

“I was just, I was thinking that maybe you didn’t know that you’re still charging my mother for the lessons that you can’t make. They don’t really count, right? So, uhm, I would like it if those aren’t charged anymore,” Victor explains, trying to use his best reasoning tone. It’s the same one his mother uses to get him to eat all of his vegetables at dinner.

Maxim goes stiff and his emerald eyes turn cold. Victor’s heartbeat sputters in his chest, but they continue to skate at the same leisurely place.

“You love me, don’t you Vitya?” Maxim asks. 

Victor can’t help but nod back immediately hoping to earn a positive reaction in return. Of course he loves Maxim; he’s taught Victor everything he knows. He adores Maxim. 

Almost as if he can read his thoughts, Maxim’s expression turns smug. He ruffles Victor’s hair. 

“Good. So, don’t ask silly questions.” 

Victor swallows and doesn’t say anything else.

 

* * *

 

 

Victor tries to ignore the nagging voice in his head that tells him that he needs to tell his mother, that what Maxim is doing isn’t right. He just, he can’t. Maxim is… He loves Victor. Not like his dad, and not like his mother. He believes in Victor, he knows he does. He doesn’t want to let that go. 

Yet, if he doesn’t tell his mother, he’ll only continue to hurt her. Not only that, but Victor can feel himself begin to grow impatient. The only benefit to Maxim’s growing laziness and encouragement is that Victor has had more time to practice for himself. He can even land an axel now, but even still, he knows it’s not enough. 

The need to improve and continue to push himself begins to develop into something physical, like an itch under his skin. He can’t let his progress suffer because his coach has grown stagnant. He’s not good enough yet to impress his mother. He needs to know _more._  

So, Victor tries again. He tries  to sneak it into conversation, casually suggesting that Maxim teach him more jumps and how they should practice more. Maxim only seems to grow annoyed, dismissing his thoughts claiming, “Have I not already given you enough? Don’t be greedy, Vitya.” The endearment begins to sound sour coming from the older man’s lips.   

It builds until Victor can’t take it anymore. In a moment of frustration, he blurts that he’s thinking of finding a new instructor. 

It gets Maxim’s attention. 

He whips around from where he was skating a couple paces ahead of Victor and skates forward, grabbing Victor’s wrists and tugging hard until he’s breathing right in Victor’s face.

“You would be so quick to leave me, Vitya?” His voice is sickly sweet, but turns Victor’s insides to ice.

Victor wants to shake his head, to relent, but he knows he can’t, not anymore. Victor grits his teeth but doesn’t react to his coach’s snarled words. 

“After everything I’ve done for you? You would be _nothing_ without me,” he snaps throwing Victor’s wrist aside. He stumbles and hits the ground, the impact bringing tears to his eyes. Since the first time he entered the rink, the coolness of the ice seems unforgiving, unwelcoming. 

Maxim’s words hit him like stone. Victor isn’t made of stone. The words bring him back to his bedroom, the clash of voices on the other side of the door tearing through him like shards of ice. He feels the same sort of panic now, icy cool and building in the pit of his stomach. He think vaguely that this is what drowning must feel like.

“I’m sorry,” he sniffles, cradling his wrist to his chest.

Like a life preserver, two hands reach down and gently pull Victor to his feet and wrap him up in a warm embrace. Victor falls into it gratefully, the turmoil in his stomach subsiding for a moment.

“It’s okay Vitya. Let’s not fight again, hmm?” Maxim soothes stroking his back.

Victor nods and lets out a shaky breath.

“Everything’s going to be okay,” he whispers.

 Victor no longer believes him.

When Victor gets home he tells his mother. He can’t help it. He thought Maxim was his friend. He thought he loved him. He doesn’t know what to think anymore. After she asks how his day was, he bursts into tears, not even making it to his carseat before he’s falling apart in her arms.

His mother does her best to calm him down enough to ask what was wrong. When he finally gets it all out, her face has gone blank and cold, hands trembling just the slightest. It confuses Victor because she doesn’t seem to be scared at all.

“I’m sorry Mama,” Victor blubbers, furiously trying to wipe away his tears despite how they only seem to be coming faster with every passing moment.

Her face softens and the kindness that to used shine from her like rays of sun leaks into her gaze. She wipes a tear from his cheek and caresses it softly.

“Oh Rybka, this is not your fault,” she reassures. “Never your fault.”

 

* * *

 

  
Quitting Maxim is a messy affair. After Victor’s meltdown, she immediately calls the management at the rink. The management refuses to do anything until a meeting between all parties has been had. Begrudgingly, she agrees to an appointment they drive to a coffee shop fifteen minutes from their apartment. She makes Victor stay in the car, but he can see through the windows that the meeting consists of his mother, Maxim, and two older men in suits holding briefcases.

Although he can’t hear what they’re saying, he can tell Maxim is angry by the wild waving of his hands. His mother by contrast, is calm and collected, cool as ice and completely courteous. Victor watches in awe as Maxim’s actions grow more spastic and his expression contorts into such a red and harsh mess that Victor thinks he looks like the Tazmanian Devil from the TV. One of the men in suits places an arm on Maxim and he visibly deflates. The rest of the meeting wraps up quickly with the men and his mother shaking hands at the end.

Maxim is the first to leave, passing by their car as he does. Almost as if he can feel Victor’s gaze, he turns his head and glares hard through the window. Victor’s breath catches in his throat, frozen by the hatred in his expression. 

His head whips away a second later when his mother comes stomping her way from from the coffee shop. Maxim shoots one last heated glower in Victor’s direction before hurrying away. Victor stares after him until his disappears from sight. It’s only when he feels his mother’s hand on his shoulder that he feels like he can breathe again.

It’s the first time, he thinks. It’s the first time someone uses his love against him. Even his father, as cold and unfeeling as he was to him, was honest. He made no attempt to lie about how he felt towards Victor. It’s the first time he confuses empty praise for affection. It’s the first time he lets someone mislead him to confuse payment for love.

He quietly vows that he won’t let it happen again.

  
Hardly a few weeks later his mother tells him to pack his bags. They’re moving to the city she tells him. They’re going to find him a proper coach. Victor asks her about the money, but she assures him it’s no longer an issue. He wants to ask why, but there’s a certain vindictive joy in her eye that he doesn’t want to shatter. 

Not soon after they move to St. Petersburg and his mother brings him to a new ice rink where he meets an older man named Yakov. His eyes are hard and set like they’ve always been like that. The lines by his mouth are even harder. He is nothing like Maxim was in the beginning.

Unlike Maxim, the man simply stands outside the rink and watches as Victor skates his warm up laps. He made it clear that he wouldn’t be joining Victor on the ice. He asks Victor to show him all he has learned so far, and Victor determinedly performs all the jumps and tricks Maxim taught him before he had lost interest. He landed all of them perfectly, even the axel.

Yakov simply nods at his display.

“It will be a couple of weeks before you are ready to train with the others,” he says.

Victor nods. The man eyes Victor suspiciously like he’s trying to pick him apart.

“I am not here to be your friend,” he adds after a moment.

 Victor merely nods again. It is better this way. 

“Good.”

 

* * *

 

Yakov is a good coach. He’s a _real_ coach, that much is clear. Maxim had been toying with Victor, humoring him. Not Yakov. He understands skating, but more than that, he understands what it means to compete and work for a place on the podium. Even as young as Victor is, he never lets him off easy.

“Your health is different than your happiness,” Yakov likes to say. “I am not responsible for your happiness, the ice should do that for you. I am here to make sure you are skating at the highest level possible. I am here to make you the best.”

Victor likes him. It’s not the same as his love for his mother or his adoration of Maxim. With Yakov, there are no loose ends or winding paths; everything is straight and to the point. He’s quick to call out and correct his mistakes, but has no qualms acknowledging when he’s done something well either. It’s not quite praise; it’s richer like honesty and respect.  

After Victor begins with Yakov, jumps and skills become easier to learn. Victor learns to be disciplined and give intention to his movements. More important than the technicalities of skating, Yakov gives him the skills he needs to be able to properly express himself on ice and tell the story of what the ice means to him.

At the same time Victor begins competing in and winning bigger competitions, his mother begins working more. By the time Victor is eight, they move into an apartment closer to the ice rink so he can walk to his practices. Sometime between packing and unpacking his mother misplaces her old ice skates. Victor offers to dig through the dusty boxes they’ve neglected to unpack, the ones that live in the closet in her bedroom, but she just shakes her head. She won’t be needing them any time soon, she says. Victor has trouble responding through the lump in his throat.

After Victor’s first major competition his mother is there to greet him as soon as he leaves the ice. She pets at his back and whispers in his ear how proud she is and Victor revels in it, loves it. It makes joy tingle in his chest and drip like honey through his veins.

It’s euphoric. It’s just. It’s not good enough. He’s not satisfied. He’s only just beginning. He needs to keep pushing, needs to work harder, needs to show her and the rest of the world something that has never been seen before. He doesn’t just want her to be proud of him, he wants her to be awestruck. He wants her to understand the amazement he feels every time his skates cut through the ice.

Victor continues to work hard.

As the years pass, he begins to gain a following. Out of nowhere boys and girls alike are approaching him off the ice asking for his autograph, his number, his preferences. The first time it happens it’s at the ice skating rink he frequents. He’s so startled by it that he breezes past the little girl asking for his autograph and beelines towards the locker room. Yakov quickly pulls him aside and explains the basics of media training.

“You can’t treat your fans that way, Victor. They look up to you. The more well known you become, the more they’ll idolize you.” Victor blanches at that.

“Why?”

Yakov’s stone face reveals nothing.

“It is not your job to ask why. It is your job to smile and greet them.”

“Oh.” Victor hadn’t know. Yakov eyes Victor and amends,

“You are a public figure now, Vitya. That means you have to act with public grace. Beyond that,” Yakov fixes him with a hard look, “It is only your responsible to be true to who you are.”

Victor nods. He can do that. It’s not as hard as he thought it would be. Separating himself into two people becomes easier as time passes, just as Yakov said it would. When someone stops him on the street, he greets them with a bubbling smile and offers to pose with them.

“Commemorative photo?” he likes to ask.

He begins to sift things into categories. There are the people that love Victor like his mother and care about him like Yakov. They see _Victor_ when they look at him, not some glittering puppet to be strung up like an ornament.

Then there are the people that love Victor for what he can give them. They love his image, the Young Ice Prince that dazzles the crowd with his swan-like grace and charming looks. They love the shiny medals he collects like bottle caps and the flirtatious winks he throws at the audience after a performance. They buy magazines with his face in them and plaster them on their walls. They watch his videos and form fan groups so they can commiserate over how wonderful his hair looks twisted back into a braid.

They don’t love him, not really, this Victor knows to be true. It’s in the way the call his name, the gasps of shock when they manage a grab at his arm. It’s in the glazed over glory of seeing their idol, but completely missing the person behind the glass.

It sends a shivering disgust down Victor’s spine. Sometimes he’ll hear a voice call to him from behind and he swears it’s his own echoing back at him from years ago. He sees the sharp glint of Maxim’s smile reflect back at him from the diamonds in their eyes mocking him. He was like that once, he has to remind himself. He had once been a starstruck fan, eager to please without considering the cost of his affection.

Even as young as he is, sometimes parents or younger skaters will approach him about private lessons. Maybe you could come to one of his performances? I have a cd of one of her practices, won’t you watch it? Victor has trouble keeping the bitterness out of his voice when he turns them down, has trouble keeping the anger from permeating his gaze at the sight of the trust in their eyes. He could ruin their child’s confidence with a single phrase, tear them down with a look. Why would they want to place that kind of trust in a stranger? It’s irresponsible.  

It’s fine though. Victor can separate the two and it’s fine, for a while.

 

* * *

 

Then the Junior World Championships happen.

Victor has been looking forward to the competition the whole year. Yakov  says he’s never been skating better. It’s not a huge compliment, Victor is always improving by leaps and bounds. Every performance is his best performance. Regardless, the compliment still sends a wave of pride at the acknowledgement. 

Even at the end of practice when his bones ache and his muscles throb beneath his skin, he can practically hear his heart singing as it beats against his rib cage. _More, more, more_ it chants. It feels like some days, Yakov has to yank him from the ice. 

Without a doubt, Victor knows the his performance at the Junior World Championship will be his best. This is the one, he thinks. This is the performance that will entrance his mother. This is the one that will make her dig up that dusty box and meet Victor out on the ice, even if it’s just for a lap around the rink.

Lately it’s been hard to even catch a conversation with his mother. They adopt a dog somewhere along the line to ensure that they’re at least home enough to play and feed Makkachin. Between her work schedule and Victor’s training regime, their free time never seems to overlap. I’m winning, Mama, he wants to say sometimes. You don’t have to work so hard anymore. Victor doesn’t think it would sway her.

It doesn’t matter though, not right now.

Not when Victor has just finished his free program and the audience is roaring their approval and Victor can feel the rush of adrenaline in his veins. There’s no other feeling like it. There’s no way he’s not going to win. He can feel it. It’s the best performance he’s ever completed.

He waves to the crowd with a blinding, genuine smile as roses and plush dolls rain down on him like confetti.

He scans the crowd for his mother. He finds Yakov staring back at him, his stone face crumbled around the area near his mouth revealing a smile, all teeth. The sight pulls a short laugh from Victor’s mouth, but he moves on, sorting through the sea of faces trying to find his mother. He sees the stunned faces of his competitors, of the audience, but he can’t locate her blue eyes anywhere.

Victor falters. Maybe she’s caught behind someone, he thinks. Maybe I missed her. He skates off the ice and lets himself be guided to the Kiss and Cry where he receives top marks just as he knew he would. 

“Wonderful, Vitya,” Yakov murmurs, placing a strong hand on his back. 

Victor hums in response, distracted. His mother still hasn’t made an appearance. Where could she be and why isn’t she here? This was all for her and she’s not even here to congratulate him. Annoyance and something darker begin to stir in the pit of Victor’s stomach.

“Cheer up, Vitya, she’ll turn up eventually. Why don’t we go and watch the rest of the competitors,” Yakov suggests after Victor finishes his final interview.

He’s got his media smile on now. He shouldn’t have to wear it, not right now. He should be with his mother and she should be congratulating him and crying and telling him how proud she is. Instead, Victor gives Yakov a short nod, and they head back out to the rink. Victor feels his shoulders begin to curve in, tremble just the slightest. It’s fine, he thinks, it’s fine.

She’s not there when Victor receives his medal on the podium. For the first time, the joy of winning is absent. He does his job. He smiles and waves and gracefully accepts the bouquet of roses. He even makes sure to congratulate second and third place on their performances. Through it all, Victor feels oddly detached. The heavy weight of the medal against his chest holds no glory, no satisfaction.

It’s only as he’s exiting the ice for the final time does he spot her. She’s standing by the exit, leaning against the railing. She looks tired, Victor thinks distantly. She’s smiling though, a small little upturn of the lip indicating she is at least somewhat cognizant of what Victor just accomplished.

As Victor approaches her, it feels like he’s walking through sand. The world around him has gone suddenly quiet, their voices dialed to a different frequency and all Victor can hear is white noise. Victor doesn’t realize he’s shaking until his mother reaches out for him.

“Nybeka,” she starts, but Victor doesn’t stop. His feet continue to carry him and he barely spares her a glance before he breezes past her, heading towards the exit.

“Victor!” she calls.

Victor stops, turns, faces her.

“Where were you?”

Her eyes soften, smile turns soft like it used to when Victor was small and needed coaxing to get into the bathtub.

“I was here, Victor. I’ve been here the whole time,” she says.

Victor shakes his head. No, that’s not true.

“Where were you?” he repeats, his voice a notch louder. He wants to scream it, wants to yell it in her face. He can’t, not while they’re in public. Instead, he has to keep it hidden beneath the surface. But, oh god, does it want to come out. The intensity of it nearly has Victor gasping. He’s barely keeping a solid grip on the bouquet in his hands.

Her smile drops. Good, Victor thinks.

“Victor, I was here. I just…” she trails off, gaze cast aside, guilty. Good, Victor thinks. “I had to leave for a little while. There was a problem with the man I was sitting next to. He was having medical problems. I had to make sure he was okay,” she explains, trying to lock eyes with him.

Victor can’t look at her. That’s not fair. It’s not _fair_. Why did she have to be the one to make sure he was okay? There were a thousand other people that could have been at his side today. It’s not fair.

“It doesn’t matter, Vitya. I knew you would do well. You always do well.”

Well? He did well? Victor just had the best performance of his life and she wasn’t even there to see it and all she has to say is that he did well?

Something breaks in Victor’s chest. He can feel tears beginning to cluster at the base of his eyes. He can’t fall apart, not here, not with all these eyes on him.

He runs towards the exit.

It doesn’t take long for his mother to find him. There are few inconspicuous exits that Victor could have taken to avoid running into the scattering crowd of fans and reporters. She finds him sitting on against the wall in the alleyway outside the large arena. His body is hunched over, shoulders turned inward and trembling. His form is nearly hidden under the dark shadow of the dumpsters lined up against the wall.

She doesn’t say anything as she approaches him. She sits down beside him and places a hand on his back. Victor shudders out a sob. He’s started crying and he can’t get himself to stop. His hair has fallen out of his braid and strands are sticking to his wet cheeks.

 “Vitya, what’s wrong?” His mother murmurs.

He can’t do this anymore. Of course she doesn’t know what’s wrong. Of course she doesn’t realize. How could she? Another sob spills from his lips and Victor can’t help but keel over sideways and let his mother whisper,“Oh Vitya” and wrap her arms around him.

They sit in silence. Victor’s breathing becomes more controlled, soothed by the steady beat of his mother’s heart against his ear. All the while, she keeps a warm hand pressed against his back, the other trailing softly down the back of his head. It lulls Victor until a heaviness begins to weigh down on his eyelids despite how his legs and bottom have gone numb against the concrete ground.

“Tell me what’s wrong, my Nybeka.”

Victor closes his eyes and gives a weak shake of the head.

“I can’t help you unless you tell me what’s wrong.” She continues to stroke his hair.

He can’t say it, doesn’t know how to explain this to her. It’s not her fault. The way he is feeling is not his mother’s fault. Yet, he can’t help the way his heart is aching right now, broken by betrayal and disappointment. It’s not her fault, but it doesn’t make Victor feel any better.

“I just wish you had seen it,” Victor finally whispers.

His mother sighs.

“Me too, Nybeka, me too.” She pauses. “But, you don’t need me out there anymore.” She pulls back a little and makes Victor look at her, tucking a gentle finger under his chin. “You haven’t needed me out on the ice since the first day I took you to the rink. Do you remember?” She asks.

Victor nod, but feels hollow. Of course I still need you, he wants to say. She seems to notice his failing enthusiasm and gives him a contemplative look.

“Why is it that you love skating so much, Victor?”

Victor blinks, dumbfounded. It seems like such a simple question, yet his tongue hesitates to form words. He skates because he loves it, because there is nothing greater. He skates because it makes him feel like the center of the whole world. He loves it because when he skates, he becomes his best self. 

Victor can’t say that. He opens his mouth, but the words won’t come.

His mother caresses his cheek and gives him a patient smile.

“It’s okay if you don’t know, but it might be good for you to think about it. The older you get, the faster time will pass. It feels like just a moment ago I was changing your diapers,” she recalls fondly. “I swear you were born for the ice. If it weren’t for Makkachin, you’d probably never come home.”

Victor wants to argue, but finds that he can’t think of anything to respond with. The denial in his head wavers.

“It’s okay. Whatever it is, you’ll figure it out, okay? You don’t need me anymore.”

The tremors that were running through his body have stopped. Victor’s tears have dried. He sees and melts deeper into his mother’s embrace. He feels the bone-deep exhaustion of the day catch up with him. A coolness settles on his skin his heartbeat steady. Remotely, Victor recognizes the feeling as love, real, true love. It’s cutting and not at all like he wanted, but it’s his.

“Let’s go home,” he says.

 

* * *

 

Returning to practice is not easy. Yakov insists he take a couple days before returning to the rink and while usually such a long time away from the ice would leave Victor feeling antsy, now he just feels a strange sense of dread.

When the day finally comes, his nerves are keyed up and his stomach is twisted in knots. He’s nervous when he walks into the lobby entrance. He’s nervous as he laces up his skates and takes off his skate guards. He’s nervous as he steps back onto the ice and begins to skate easy warm up laps.

Everything suddenly seems foreign to him. He feels like he did when he was six years old, stepping out on the ice for the first time deathly terrified of falling. A shakiness plagues his legs as he tries to sink back into his normal routine.

He skates terribly. He can’t land any of his jumps and his usual fluid rhythm is replaced with stiff and off time movements. 

“What’s wrong with you today, Victor?” Yakov calls from the side as Victor flops another toe loop.

Victor rises to his feet again and pats at his cold arms. He forgot to wear a long sleeve, and his repeated falls are causing his forearms to turn red from the cold ice. Victor’s mind goes terribly blank. I don’t know, he thinks.

Yakov heaves a sigh.

“Get off the ice. You’re done for today,” Yakov orders.

Victor numbly follows his instructions and heads towards the locker room.

“No,” Yakov calls after him. “Your job today is to watch.”

Victor looks around to where Yakov is gesturing. Behind him on the benches are Mila and Georgi lacing up their skates. It’s usually a few hours into Victor’s training  before other skaters begin to trickle in. Victor blinks. He hadn’t even noticed them arrive.

Obediently Victor sits down on one of the benches and watches. Like him, they take their time easing their muscles into engagement, careful not to rush anything lest they tear something. He watches as they skate their warm ups, moving and stretching languidly across the ice.

Watching them move in the state he’s in is strange. His toes curl and his fingers twitch in reflex in time with their spins and jumps like muscle memory, but his mind stays quiet. He still feels oddly detached, but it dissipates marginally as the hours pass and they progress into more intensive movements and work on perfecting their routines. The ice seems to pull them across its surface like a conversation, their skates scratching messages into its cold face.

“All you skaters speak the same language,” Yakov says, sitting down next to Victor. Victor glances sideways at him, but can’t help how his gaze flickers back to the ice. “The language of the ice. Not everyone understands it, sure. But you, Victor, I’ve never seen someone speak it more fluently than you.” 

Victor turns to face him fully. By nature, Yakov’s face resembles stone more than anything else. Now is no different, but there is also a warmth in the the steely glint of his eyes that spears through Victor and touches him inside, somewhere near his heart and spreads like a warm ripple.

“But even the most talented of us stumble on our words. It’s good to get back to the basics.” Victor nods, understands. “Take the rest of the day off.” Yakov plants a firm hand on Victor’s knee and lets  the warmth linger for a moment longer before he stands up again and walks back to edge of the rink to criticize Georgi’s attempt at a triple axel.

Victor allows himself a small smile.

Things are good for a while. Victor continues to win and Yakov continues to drive him harder, despite how Victor’s new found sense of confidence has driven him to become a little bit more mischievous. He still likes to surprise people. He still loves the shade of beet red of Yakov's face when he lands a quadruple salchow despite having planned a triple. The pull of the ice is stronger than it’s ever been.

There are still moments when Victor falters. There are days when he wakes up and the house is empty and something deep inside him aches. Times like those don’t last long. Usually, Makkachin’s excited morning kiss can distract him from his downward spiral of thoughts.

It’s not like Victor’s really alone, at least not anymore. Since seeing Georgi and Mila skate, Victor has begun to watch the other skaters with keen eyes. He talks to them in passing, in the locker room, asks if they want to join him for dinner. Their companionship is easy; they’re like him. They train like he does and obsess over their jumps until they can land them perfectly. He can see the fire that burns in them, that burns to be on the ice and it fuels Victor. 

 

* * *

 

 

Things are good, but that doesn’t mean Victor doesn’t  make mistakes. Being surrounded by bright lights and reporters doesn’t make Victor any older than he is even if he’s been dealing with them for years now. It doesn’t make him any less susceptible to being hurt.

He meets a girl at the shop a couple blocks from his mother’s apartment. Victor moved out a few years ago, but he keeps his old bed company at least once a week.

It shouldn’t be as significant as it is. Victor’s met girls and boys alike; he’s had affairs and learned the pleasure of waking up to another body beside his own. The flings he had been involved in the past were generally with older men or women that were unaware or disinterested in Victor’s titles. They were more interested in what Victor’s body might offer them, how it might react or mold against their own. They were more direct with their actions, more seductive. It’s better for Victor like that. He doesn’t have time for a relationship.

Only, he meets a girl at the mini market down a couple blocks from his mother’s apartment.

It’s late when he walks into the shop, the bells strung up to the handle of door ringing in the silence of the night. Victor ducks in quietly, moving intently to find the cough syrup. His mother had argued that she would probably just sleep off the cold, but Victor had insisted. He didn’t like the paleness that overtook her skin, making her seem older than she is.

Victor rubs the tiredness out of his eyes as he tries to find which aisle the cough syrup is in. Yakov had been in a stroppy mood and practice had gone on longer today than usual. Victor’s body is strong and shaped to perform at its max potential, but that doesn’t mean it is invincible.

Victor sighs in victory when he finally spots the familiar green box. He’s about to reach for it when he hears a voice sound from behind him.

“Oh.”

Victor turns. It’s a girl who spoke, staring at Victor with wide brown eyes. She’s got short brown hair to match that falls just above her shoulders. At first Victor thinks she’s a fan and resigns himself to have to deal with an amount of stilted small talk and an obligatory selfie. It’s only after he follows her gaze does he realize she’s staring at the box in his hand. It’s the last one on the shelf.

“This is the last one,” he says needlessly. They look at each other awkwardly and Victor tries not to shift under the woman’s stare. He’s tired and he just wants to go home and it’s ridiculous that the shop doesn’t have anymore cough syrup on stock, but it’s not his fault.

“You don’t look sick,” the woman says. Her voice is soft like chiming bells, grazing over Victor’s ear with the slightest hint of accusation.  

“It’s for my mother,” he explains. “She’s sick.” Her eyes soften slightly.

“Me too,” the woman says. “Well, not me, but my mother. Yeah, she’s got a really nasty cough and I don’t have a car and this was this the closest place in walking distance…” she trails off, a light blush coloring her cheeks.

Victor smiles a little and notices the dark circles under the woman’s eyes, dark and purple like Victor’s.

“We can split it if you like?” Victor offers.

The woman’s eyes light up.

“Really? Wow. Thank you, I really appreciate it. I mean it’s at least a ten minute walk to the next shop and I really don’t want to leave her alone and-”

Victor cuts her off, putting a hand up to stop her rambling.

“I understand.”

They share a smile. 

“Thank you,” she repeats, softer this time. “My name is Sasha.” 

Sasha reaches a hand out and Victor slips it into his own. Her fingers are cold and pink. 

“Victor. Nice to meet you.”

They end up pouring half of the syrup into a styrofoam coffee cup for Victor to take home. She insists that he take the bottle, but Victor refuses knowing that his commute home will be a lot shorter than hers. They part ways at the entrance of the shop, the light painting them pale against the dark sidewalk. 

Victor walks home with a cup of cough syrup in one hand and a slip of paper with Sasha’s number written in the other and a private smile on his face.

* * *

 

Sasha is lovely, Victor decides. She laughs at all of Victor’s jokes and cooks Victor traditional French cuisine that she learned how to make the year she spent abroad. She calls him _mon chéri_ and also seems to know when to kiss Victor’s worries away and soothes his pains.

“When are you going to invite me to one of your fancy skating competitions?” She asks slyly. Victor freezes, both hands gripping a soapy plate above the sink. Sasha is sitting across from him at the counter table with her chin resting on her hand and her elbows on the table.

Victor sputters. How does she even know about that?

Sasha rolls her eyes at Victor’s obvious shock. “C’mon Victor, we’ve been dating for more than a month now. You never talk about your skating, but it’s obvious you’re a big deal.” She fixes him with a wide doe-eyed look. “I’ve looked you up. You’re really talented.”

An irrational, icy panic drives itself into Victor’s gut. The dish he was washing slips between his fingers and splashes into the soapy water.

“Why do you want to go so bad?” Victor asks sharply. Why did she even bring it up? The icy feeling spreads down to his fingertips. He should have known this would happen. How long has she known about him? Has she been planning this all along?

“Hey, hey, none of that,” Sasha starts, climbing onto the counter and grabbing one of Victor’s soapy hands. “Whatever you’re thinking is probably ridiculous.” Victor moves to pull away, but she only tightens her grip. “Victor listen to me, I only brought it up because I know it’s a huge part of your life. If you aren’t comfortable sharing it with me yet, then that’s fine.”

Victor blinks. He still can’t relax despite the relief her confession brings. The nervous energy flowing through him stays constant. He just has to be sure.

“You don’t mind?” Victor asks. He tries to come off as casual, but his voice holds a fragile quality he can’t quite shake.

Sasha runs her hand down the side of his cheek and tucks a strand of hair behind his ear.

“Of course not.”

They kiss and it’s nice and quiet and for the first time in a while it feels like Victor can actually breathe properly.

Time passes. Victor is content. His skating gets better and he feels more focused than he has in a long time. He sees Sasha on his off days and she doesn’t ask to see him skate again. Sometimes Victor thinks about asking her to attend one of his competitions, but in the end he always decides against it. He doesn’t want to mix the two. It’s better this way. When he’s on the ice or in the studio, he doesn’t think of her. He keeps his mind blank and collected, cool and sharp like the ice. When he’s with Sasha he allows himself to soften into a quieter version of himself.

Sasha is easy to be around. She doesn’t expect him to smile for her or to woo her or to take her to bed after a night out to the town. She seems as content to be with Victor as Victor is to be with her.

Everything seems perfect until right before Grand Prix Final that year. The month leading up to it is as hectic as usual, but more so now that Victor has a title to maintain. He begins to see Sasha less and less as the competition date approaches.

She doesn’t even complain when Victor arrives thirty minutes late to their friday night dinner date.

“Sorry I’m late,” Victor apologizes patting Sasha’s hand gently before taking off his coat and draping it over the back of his chair. He had been going over the last jumps in his routine trying to perfect the fluidity in landing and the time had simply ran away from him.

Sasha hums in acknowledgement and offers Victor a small smile, but her eyes seem distracted, subdued. The glass of wine next to her plate looks like it’s already been refilled. Guilt pools in Victor’s stomach. He should have set a timer.

“How was your day?” Victor asks after a couple minutes of silence. Sasha still hasn’t said anything and her eyes have been cast to the side, clouded over. They flicker over to Victor at the sound of his voice.

“It was nice,” she replies listlessly. The tone makes Victor uneasy.

More time passes, the silence only broken between them when the waiter comes by to ask them for their orders. The background chatter surrounding them is beginning to grate on Victor.

“Is something wrong, Sasha?” Victor finally asks.

She falters, eyes clearing and looks at Victor, really _looks_ at him. 

“Victor, you know I love you right?”

Victor blinks.

“What?” he says dumbly.

Sasha blushes.

“Sorry, I guess that was kind of out of the blue. Wait okay, that’s not how I wanted to start this at all.”

“Start what?”

Her gaze flickers again, over Victor’s shoulder to something in the distant. Victor refuses the urge to turn around and see what she’s looking at.

“You’re a really great guy Victor, okay? We have lots of fun together. You’re really sweet, actually, very sweet,” Sasha says purposefully, placing her hand over Victor’s. Victor would usually smile at her rambling, but something about the way she’s speaking intensifies his unease.

“I just. I don’t really think we’re cut out for this,” she says finally.

Victor starts.

“Cut out for what?”

Sasha looks away, embarrassed.

“It’s just you’re always busy with skating, which is fine, but I never see you and it’s just that you haven’t even met my mom and we never kiss anymore, which is fine, but like that’s the problem,” She gets out a jumble of words.

Realization dawns on Victor. A sort of numbness settles over Victor like a coat, like a shield. The only place he feels hot is where Sasha is touching him. He slowly pulls his hand from her grip. Like fog clearing, he can see the apologetic look in her eye and the discomfort in her posture.

To some degree Victor was expecting this. It was too good to be true after all, but some small part of him that recognized that this would eventually come to an end had always thought that he would be the one to end things.

“We’re breaking up,” Victor clarifies dully.

Her shoulders slouch like she’s relieved she isn't the one who has to say it.

“We can still be friends!” she assures. “It’s probably better for you anyhow so you don’t have to feel rushed to be anywhere or obligated or anything. Not that I think you felt obligated! I just, uhm, it’s probably better for both of us.”

Victor tries to see the kindness in her excuses. She’s trying to phrase it like this won’t break Victor’s heart. Victor can’t feel his own heart right now, but he knows in due time, perhaps tonight, or maybe in a few weeks, he will feel the effect of her words and his heart will tear itself something hot and red and messy. Right now, he simply nods slowly.

“Did you cheat on me?” Victor asks, just to be sure. It feels like he’s missing an essential piece. Maybe he was wrong, maybe they weren’t happy. They were happy, weren’t they?

Sasha’s eyes widen in alarm, and a little bit of hurt.

“No, Victor, no. You know I would never.”

Victor nods again. He does know her. Sasha isn’t the cheating type. She’s the caring and loving and supportive type. She cares about Victor too much to cheat on him.

Oh. The missing piece slides into place. She loves him, but she’s not in love with him. Is Victor in love with her? He certainly loves her and she makes him smile like none of his partners have before, but he can’t be sure. Wouldn’t he be certain if he was in love? Maybe not.

“Alright,” Victor says. “Alright.”

He can do this. He thinks of his mother and Yakov and Maxim. Things end and feelings pass. He will be fine. This is fine. It’s fine.

 Victor goes to the barbershop first thing the next morning and cuts off all his hair. The sections of hair float to the the ground like silver ribbons.

  
  
  
  



	2. During

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyo guess who isn't dead

 

The first time Victor sees Yuri Plisetsky skate, his breath leaves him like a punch to the stomach. In person, the kid is  a spitfire, sharp around the edges and unsubtly cruel in the face of strangers. 

On the ice, he transforms into something else entirely. His face runs smooth and the crick in his shoulder eases until his limbs flow like water. Watching him is familiar in the strangest way. Victor imagines it’s his own arms lifting just so and his skates cutting the ice like a command, willing it to mold beneath his form. 

When Victor sees him perform a quad in competition, it’s almost laughable. It’s reckless and stupid and he could have seriously injured himself in doing so. Yet, Victor can’t help but understand him. Yuri isn’t looking to impress the judges or win another competition to prove his worth as a skater. He skates because he has to, because the pull of the ice will always be more important than anything else. That’s why Victor scolds him, tells him to be safe, to slow down. He wants to warn the kid. It’s dangerous to burn that bright, he wants to say. If you keep it up at this pace, you’ll burn out. Victor doesn’t say that. Instead, he offers him a small promise, doesn’t think much of it initially, but when he leaves the rink he can’t help but laughing out loud. 

It is Yuri Plisetsky’s face that rings in his mind when the speakers at the ice rink announce the next skater. Victor falters in the middle of an interview, his kilowatt smile glitching into genuine confusion as he turns his head to the TV screen in the lobby. 

Last he heard, Yuri was planning on dominating the Junior Championships. Never did he think Yuri would be so bold to compete at such a high level so young. His questions are answered when the camera focuses in on the skater entering the rink. 

“Katsuki Yuuri,” the subtitle reads next to a small bio. Katsuki Yuuri, twenty-three years old from Japan, his first year competing at the Grand Prix Finals. Victor can barely hear the accompanying commentary over the bustle of the lobby and the reporter jabbering to him about how he think his performance went and is he seeing anyone? 

The camera zooms in on the Yuuri’s face. His eyes are completely unreadable, but the bags beneath them betray his anticipation. His shoulders are pulled tight against his body, a bad sign before any performance. Everything about him screams nervous, yet something about him catches Victor’s eye. 

Even through the pixelated screen, Victor can see a spark of something in the eyes of the skater. The feeling is almost tangible on Victor’s tongue, but he can’t quite place it. 

When Yuuri starts skating, he realizes what it is. It’s the passion in Katsuki’s eyes, the fire he recognized in the other Yuri. It’s different with this Yuuri, his performance shows as much. At parts, it physically hurts to watch, and Victor finds himself confused to the point of openly displaying his discontent. 

The reporter breaks him from his reverie and asks him if something is wrong. Victor catches himself and forces a smile and turns back to the present moment, but it’s not long before his eyes wander off again. 

If Yuri and Victor burn with their passion, Yuuri is a forest fire. He’s out of control, his jumps and skills are forceful and sloppy. His skating ability is clear in the way he recovers from his mistakes with practiced fluidity, but his face betrays everything. It’s scrunched up and tense like he’s on the verge of a breakdown while his body spirals out of control. It itches at Victor’s skin, and he has to look away again. 

What a pity, he thinks before turning back to the reporter to finally answer her question. 

 

Victor doesn’t think of Yuuri Katsuki again until the banquet. He is busy shaking hands with eager sponsors and politely thanking all that congratulate him on another year securing his title. It is possibly one of the most boring events Victor has ever attended. Even the champagne in his glass flute has gone flat. His sips it languidly and does his best to not make eye contact with anyone wearing a too-bright smile. 

When Victor attended his first banquet, his mother had insisted on coming, but after Yakov ensured her that he would take care of him, she instead placed a kiss on his cheek before retiring to her hotel room. 

As promised, Yakov had led him through the schedule of the night. The sponsors would trickle in first to talk among themselves and make bets about next year’s pool of skaters. Then the skaters would filter in, usually pair skaters so a conversational partner would be guaranteed. Finally, miscellaneous guests and single skaters would filter and the banquet would officially be considered started and seemingly out of nowhere, hor d’oeuvres would be produced by fresh-faced serving staff. 

Early on, Yakov let Victor filter in late with the rest of the single skaters and exit early after making all the appropriate greetings. As Victor became more successful he began to require Victor to show up earlier and stay later.

“A winner is never late,” Yakov likes to say.

Tonight, however, Yakov is nowhere to be seen. After doing his rounds, Victor has done his best to fade back to the edge of the room. From his position, the event seems even more artificial under the dimmed chandelier lighting making everyone’s formal attire sparkle with an underwater quality. Victor glowers into his flat champagne and considers whether or not he can drown himself in it. As if hearing his thoughts, Chris Giacometti appears at Victor’s side. 

In typical Chris fashion, he slinks right up into Victor’s face, draping himself across Victor’s body in the same a 30 million dollar rug might be strewn across the floor in a mansion in the hamptons. 

“You look stunning,” he whispers into Victor’s ear. Victor hardly blinks. 

“Hi Chris,” he intones.

Chris pinches his cheek causing Victor to nearly spill his champagne across his suit. He turns and glares at Chris only to find him showing off his brightest and most mischievous smile. 

“Stop frowning, you big child. You just won one of the most prestigious skating competitions in the world and you are sulking like an impudent toddler.” 

There are few people that can manage to insult Victor so blatantly. Victor cracks the smallest of smiles. 

“If I have won such prestige, then I shouldn’t have to suffer through this godawful event,” Victor mutters only for Chris to roll his eyes at him. 

“You never used to be this dramatic.” 

Victor smirks.

“And you never used to be this forward,” Victor says, pointedly looking at where Chris’ fingers have begun to hover over Victor’s waistline, dancing around the belt loops. Chris responds in turn by flicking at his hip bone before returning his hands to himself. 

The first time Victor met Chris Giacometti, he was a cherubic, wiry youth with fluffy blonde hair and sparkling green eyes. Through the years, Victor had spotted him at events, watching as he matured into an exuberant performer with a seductive streak. 

Unbeknownst to Victor, Chris had been pining over him since they had first met, but it wasn’t until a couple months after his break up with Sasha that, in a fit of passion and alcohol, Victor had given into his seductive tactics. They spent the entire weekend together in a hotel bedroom. Afterwards, it was like Chris had cleansed himself of his youthful fantasies and was more fresh-faced than Victor had ever seen him. 

From then on, a strange, but comfortable friendship had formed between the two of them, and while Victor still questioned his motives at times, it was clear that if Chris Giacometti truly wanted something, nothing would stop him. 

“At least try to pretend you are having a good time. Your sullen attitude only fuels your starboy image,” Chris comments.

Victor bristles slightly at that and sips his champagne. 

“I don’t care about my image,” Victor mutters.

It’s not true. Chris graciously doesn’t disagree, but they both know that if Yakov was present, Victor wouldn’t be off to the side, strategically avoiding any name-badged personnel. Usually, Victor could get himself to mingle and put on a smile for at least half of the night before slipping off back to his hotel room, but not tonight. Tonight, he is tired. He wants to escape back to his mother’s apartment and sleep for a week straight. 

There was something about this year’s gold medal that had felt particularly heavy. Try as he might, Victor has a hard time recalling his own performance with clarity. It felt like he had been dancing through a dream. Everything was familiar, but felt rooted in fantasy. Even the excitement of putting on his costume before he went on felt dimmed by the routine of the event. 

Victor frowns. The ice rink has always been Victor’s home, but lately it has felt too familiar. He sinks into it and finds his thoughts floating off. It doesn’t detract from his performance; Victor could skate blind and still land on the podium. 

It’s the lack of excitement that truly troubles him. Usually his focus sharpens and his mind is able to hone itself to see only the glimmering white ice in front of him. He was sure that winning the Grand Prix would bring that intensity back to him, but more than anything, he feels hollow, weightless. 

It scares him. There is no way he can compete another season in this kind of mindset. That Victor is even debating not competing next year leaves him shaken. A future that doesn’t involve skating is unimaginable, but the path ahead never seemed so cloudy. Who is Victor Nikiforov if he’s not a skater? Victor isn’t sure he wants to find out.

“The only person that looks more miserable than you is Katsuki,” Chris notes pointing across the room. Victor looks, and is surprised to see the skater from the TV in the lobby. 

“Who?’

“Yuuri Katsuki? He’s one of Japan’s top skaters, but he had a tough time and landed last place this year. He’s lovely, but has some confidence issues.” 

Victor quirks an eyebrow at Chris. 

“Lovely?”

Chris shrugs and ducks his head, a small smirk playing at his lips and a familiar predatory look in glinting in his eyes. 

“I’m just saying it looks like he could use some cheering up,” Chris explains, his smirk expanding into a smile. He looks almost giddy with anticipation. Victor chuckles. 

“And you’re so gallantly going to fulfill that role?” 

Chris shrugs. 

“I don’t see anyone else stepping up.” 

Victor’s smile slips. Chris is right of course. People have a tendency to ignore things that might be upsetting to think or look at. Katsuki is certainly a pitiful sight. Shoulders hunched, his tacky suit is practically swallowing him whole. It’s painfully obvious that he doesn’t know anybody, as all the other skaters in attendance give him a wide berth. Those that spare him a glance look sour  as if they’re scared they might catch his gloom. 

As it is, it looks like Yuuri is taking down champagne flutes faster than servers can refill the glasses. Amused, Victor notes a couple of servers in the corner gesturing wildly in his direction, strained expressions on their faces. Victor wonders how the skater would react if he was aware of his audience.

“You better hurry up before he passes out,” Victor turns to warn Chris only to find that he’s wandered off. Victor finds him hovering next to one of the servers, a flirtatious smile on his face as he obscenely sucks on a portobello mushroom. The server flushes bright red and tries to awkwardly pat at Chris’ chest. Victor rolls his eyes. Typical. 

Maybe he should go over and say something. At the rate he’s drinking, he’s bound to make a spectacle of himself at some point in the night. Victor debates it. It would be a good excuse to leave early and he would be saving the dejected skater from further embarrassment. 

Victor turns his attention back to the Japanese skater only to find the spot where he was empty. Victor furrows his eyebrows and scans the room to find him. He nearly chokes on a laughter when he eventually spots him next to Yuri Plisetsky. Now Victor should really intervene before something happens. Already, Victor can see an outraged expression twisting across the Russian skater’s face. Victor walks closer to hear the conversation. 

“..ave a few things to say,” Victor hears Yuuri say, words slurred. He hadn’t really thought through what he would say and the sound of Yuuri’s voice makes him pause. His voice is softer than he would have thought, roughed around the edges by the alcohol. 

Yuri twists his face up like he’s going to say something particularly degrading, and Victor moves to step in before any real damage can be done, but stops short when Katsuki suddenly lets out a bellowing laugh, head thrown back and cheeks flushed pink. Yuri seems similarly confused because the harsh look falls into something more akin to confusion.   
“Can you dance?” Yuuri asks. 

“What?” 

Yuuri straightens up, hands reaching up and loosening the tie from his neck and unbuttoning the first couple of buttons revealing a small portion of his chest. 

“Can you dance?” Yuuri repeats with a certain amount of smugness leaking into his voice as if he were privy to information that only his eyes had seen. The tone edged just close enough to condescending to set Yuri off. 

His eyes light up like flames and his fists clench up at his sides, ready to attack. 

“Of course I can fucking dance, you pig!” Yuri huffs completely indignant. 

Yuuri only giggles, clearly delighted by this and reaches out to pat Yuri on the shoulder. Yuri lets out a sound akin to a hiss and backs up before Katsuki can make contact. 

“Great. Dance with me,” Yuuri says, eyes wide and sparkling. 

Victor nearly chokes on the champagne he was sipping. 

“Fuck off,” Yuri growls, cheeks stained the lightest of pinks. 

Yuuri merely crosses his arms across his chest and gives an adorable pout. 

“Dance. With. Me.” 

“Fuck. Off,” Yuri repeats.

“How else am I going to show you?” The Japanese skater huffs dramatically. 

Yuri’s gaze narrows. 

“Show me what?” He grits out. 

Katsuki’s responding smile is blinding. Victor feels a smile of his own tugging at his lips. This was not at all what he was expecting. Based on his droopy form over by the drink table, Victor was expecting him to be a teary-eyed sort of drunk. However, Victor is delighted to be proved wrong. 

“Dance with me,” Yuuri challenges, punctuating his words with small pokes to Yuri’s chest. Yuri slaps his hand away, annoyed, but a dawn of recognition rises in his features.

“Are you challenging me?” Yuri asks, skeptical. He glances around, eyeing the sponsors and coaches around the room. Yuri, the fifteen year-old rising ice star, suddenly seems unsure. 

“Dance,” is all Yuuri offers him before he’s grabbing his wrist and pulling him towards the center of the ballroom. They brush past Victor on their way to the floor. He expects to Yuri to pull away and curse at the drunk skater, but instead, he sees the gleam of determination beneath his flustered cheeks. Victor smiles. Yuri has never been one to shy away from competition. 

“Someone turn the music up. We’re trying to dance,” Yuri orders, turning to shout at a passing server. 

The night begins to liven up from there. 

What starts out as a dance off devolves into a strip tease performed by Yuuri and Chris. Victor watches as the night unfolds still nurturing a champagne flute in his hands, content in being a spectator of the amusing spectacle. The main attraction doesn’t disappoint. 

Even in his drunk state, it’s clear Yuuri Katsuki has been trained classically. He moves across the floor effortlessly, limbs flowing like water and feet touching the ground like an afterthought. Halfway through Yuri and Yuuri’s dance-off, the volume of the speakers is turned up and more lively music begins to fill the room. Jackets are strewn haphazardly across chairs and tables and a pile of stilettos steadily grows beneath the drinks table. Even some of the straight-backed servers have taken off their blazers and unbuttoned their crisp white button ups. 

Without noticing, Victor gets swept up in the action. Chris throws him a sultry look from across the room, one arm still wrapped around the pole and the other draped across Yuuri’s shoulder, but it’s Mila Babicheva that slyly takes his glass from him and shoves him forward onto the dance floor. 

As soon as Yuuri’s eyes land on Victor, he’s a goner. 

Yuuri dances furiously, like he might forget the placement of each step right before he takes it. As they glide across the ballroom floor, Yuuri teases Victor with brief touches. Their dance off feels more ritual than recreational with Yuuri sliding past him, his arms and legs twisting in an unimaginable fashion, grazing Victor’s hips as he does so. Victor has the vague notion that he is being toyed with, that Yuuri is playing a secret game that only he knows the rules to. He finds that he doesn’t particularly mind. He lets himself be led, lets himself chase after the chaste touches, gladly follows where he leads. 

“Keep your clothes on you Pig!” Yuri shouts from the sidelines, cheeks flushed bright red as Yuuri starts to take off his shirt again. Victor rolls his eyes, and twirls Katsuki, pleased when the other man giggles in delight. If Plisetsky had a problem with Katsuki’s lack of modesty, he should have left during the strip show. Victor has a feeling that Yuri’s anger has more to do with his crushing defeat in the dance battle. 

Besides, he thinks breathlessly as Yuuri dips him, Yuuri’s button up is already soaked through, leaving very little to the imagination. Victor wants to keep this image in his mind, Yuuri staring down at him with wide eyes, glassy with delight and smiling like Victor hung the stars in the sky. 

He turns and winks at Yuri, grinning when the Russian Punk gives him a particularly rude hand gesture. 

The sponsors and youngers skaters begin to file out, their coaches shuffling behind them, but Victor hardly notices. Victor was wrong about Yuuri Katsuki. If Yuuri Katsuki’s fiery passion was out of control before, now it is an inferno. It sweeps through Victor like good vodka and leaves his chest tingling. 

The song ends and a more neutral song begins to play through the speakers. The lights dim to accompany the quiet jazz that begins to flow through the room. Someone in the back of the room whines in disappointment. 

It’s then that Victor notices that most of the people in attendance have filtered out through the large oak doors. The clock above it lets him know that the night is beginning to bleed into early morning. The staff are clearly trying to encourage the guests to head home. Victor notes the slouched shoulders of the remaining servers, their nearly empty trays balanced precariously in their tired hands. 

Yuuri seems to notice too,  because he huffs out a small “oh” before pulling back, blinking at Victor as he goes. Victor lets him slip out of his grip and tries not to look too disappointed. 

A small panic blossoms in his stomach. He doesn’t want this to end. What does he have to return to? An empty apartment filled with meaningless strings of medals and a sink full of dishes. 

“One more dance,” Victor finds himself saying, pulling the other skater closer. Yuuri, for his part, goes willingly and sinks forward letting his body mold to Victor’s settling his arms around his waist and his head on his chest. They sway like this, bodies lined up tight and embracing to the ever softening elevator music as tables are dismantled and Chris lazily snaps selfies in the corner of the room, clothes strewn around him in a pile. 

Victor closes his eyes and lets himself fall into the moment. It’s strange, he thinks, that in all the excitement of the past couple hours, of the past couple days, this is his favorite moment. He feels...happy. It’s a strange thing to feel to presently aware of. Victor’s been happy plenty of times in his life: when he won his first competition, when he first landed a quadruple flip, when Sasha kissed him for the first time. Those were all happy memories, but they only stood out as such in reflection. It’s only when Victor is flipping through the camera roll in his phone or the picture album at his mother’s apartment does the feeling wash over him. 

Now, though, everything feels aglow. The happiness is a physical thing that Victor can feel floating off him. He feels like he’s living a memory on repeat, the shock of warmth of it all hitting him all at once again and again. The absurdity of it draws a peal of laughter from his lips, short and confessional. 

Yuuri alerts, pulling back to tip his head back in confusion, setting his wide, glassy eyes on Victor. Victor notes a small trail of drool on the corner of his lips and the hot flush of his cheeks and laughs again. He had been rocking the man to sleep without even noticing. 

“What’s funny?” Yuuri asks, voice soft. It almost startles Victor how soft it is. 

Victor shakes his head. 

“Nothing,” he says, voice just as soft, “I just didn’t expect this.” 

Yuuri offers him a dopey smile and pulls back to poke a finger into Victor’s cheek, clearly pleased when Victor laughs.

“Expect what?” 

“You,” Victor sighs, pulling Yuuri close again. 

Yuuri hums against his chest, content. 

They fall back into their rocking pattern and Victor hums an almost imperceptible lullaby into the other man’s ear. The music from the speakers has dimmed out completely, but they no longer need it. Yuuri didn’t need it before, the rhythm of the music so evident in the way he moved his body. 

“Victor,” Yuuri murmurs, staring up at him through heavy lidded eyes. At this rate Victor expects he will probably end up carrying the other man back to his hotel room. He finds that he doesn’t mind. 

“Be my coach?” 

Victor slows their rocking, unsure if he heard clearly. 

“What?” 

“I won the dance off,” Yuuri yawns through his words, “So be my coach.”

Victor stops completely and lets his grip loosen, not caring as Yuuri slides further down his body without his support to keep him upright. Yuuri doesn't notice his stiffness and simply nuzzles closer. 

It always seems to come down to what Victor can give people. 

Distantly, Victor knows that Yuuri Katsuki is drunk off of his ass and would never do half of the things he did tonight with a sober mind. But, Victor also knows that a drunk mind speaks with a sober tongue and so there must be some truth in Yuuri's request. There must exist some reality where Yuuri had thought of approaching Victor with this offer, this quiet, pleased demand that just spilled from his lips. 

Victor hates it. Hates that this is what Yuuri has asked of him. It could have been anything else and Victor would have submitted. His money, his body, his heart, he felt ready to give it, but there was something about this that made Victor's heart freeze over. 

Maybe it is the trusting look in Yuuri's eyes as he said it, so casual and unconcerned as if Victor didn't even have the capacity to fail him, as if it wasn’t even a concern. Maybe it is the way Victor can see a thousand other younger skaters reflected in Yuuri's eyes, yearning to be great and willing to put their trust in the first person that made them smile, that made them believe that they could be something more. It's a cruel power for anyone to hold, and the carelessness with which young skaters throw it about turns Victor's insides sour. It brings him back to the ground, his feet on the floor and his head out of the clouds where he was dreaming of a reality where he could bask in this moment, in this man for eternity and not worry about plane flights or upcoming competitions. 

Victor looks down, opening his mouth to respond, to ease Yuuri off of the ledge he has just so precariously placed himself on, only to see that Yuuri's eyes have glazed over are are fading rapidly. He sighs instead and gently pries the other man off of him, smiling privately when Yuuri unwillingly tightens his grip around Victor's waist. 

"I think it's time for you to get to bed," he whispers apologetically, running a gentle hand through Yuuri's mussed hair. 

"No," is all Yuuri says, lips pouted into Victor's shirt, petulant. "Not until you promise."

Victor should be angry, he should be burning with contempt that this is what their night has culminated to, just another fan wanting the man on the screen, the man that can lift him to success. Yet, Victor can't be mad, not when Yuuri's attention is so physical, so intense that he imagines Yuuri can see to the very core of him and caress the softness there like a familiar greeting. Victor can’t be mad. 

Victor gently slides out of Yuuri's grip. This time Yuuri lets him, but gives Victor a begrudging look. 

"Do you have your room key?" he asks. 

Yuuri shrugs and begins patting himself until he procures a shiny room key with the logo of the hotel they are both staying at splattered on the side of it. "Let's get you back to your room, hmm?" 

Yuuri stops pouting when he seems to realize that Victor isn't abandoning him quite yet. 

"Okay," he agrees easily. 

Victor somehow manages to transport Yuuri’s swaying body back to his room with little incident. Getting him into bed is another story. 

“I think,” Yuuri says very seriously from his position on the bed. His legs are splayed out in front of him, only in his briefs and socks. “You should sleep with me.”

Victor laughs.

Yuuri immediately pouts, face turning pointedly away from him as he huffs. 

Victor hadn’t meant to laugh, but the matter-of-fact tone with which he said sent him sputtering. Victor knows what Yuuri is really asking him.  _ Stay. Stay with me.  _

He slides forward to slip off Yuuri’s socks and pats his leg in consolation.

“Another time,” he promises, not entirely sure if he means it. He certainly needs time to process the night’s events. Yuuri turns back, face flushed a light pink, but seemingly appeased. 

“Ok,” he agrees before his eyes flutter shut.

Victor places the faintest hint of a kiss on a cheek before pulling the covers over the dozing man’s body. He leaves a glass of water and aspirin on the bedside drawer, before slipping out the door, smiling all the way back to his own room. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tell me what you think (: 
> 
> I'm excited to delve into Yuuri's character more.

**Author's Note:**

> Part two is on its way! We have yet to meet Yuuri and all the adventures he will bring into Victor's life. Also, just as a side note, I had this piece titled as "Yeep" in my google docs and so that's what I've been referring to it as for the past month. When I actually had to give it a proper title, I seriously debated just calling it "Yeep". Anyways, please give me feedback in the comments and bug me on [tumblr](http://www.merlinthepoet.tumblr.com)


End file.
